“Sorry,” I say, trying to laugh. “Got dizzy for a second.”
He’s studying me, blue eyes sharp and worried. “Did you remember something?”
I shake my head. “Not really. Maybe? It was just a flash. I’m fine, really.” I give him my best I’m-totally-not-freaking-out smile, but he doesn’t look convinced.
He squeezes my arm. “Tell me if it happens again, okay?”
I nod, but in my head, I’m still in the grass, still soaked and shivering, with that young man’s hand in mine.
The fresh airdoes something to my appetite, so when we get to Bellisimo, I’m starving. The restaurant is insane—white tablecloths, glass chandeliers, servers gliding around in black vests. Every surface gleams, and the wine glasses are so thin I’m afraid to breathe near them.
The hostess seats us in a little alcove by the window, private but not hidden. Hunter orders for both of us, fluent in Italian, and the server bows and disappears.
“You could’ve at least let me try to pronounce it,” I tease.
He gives me a look. “I know you hate being put on the spot.”
I shrug. “Maybe, but I did do the auction, after all. I like to surprise you.”
He tilts his head, considering. “You already do, sweetheart.”
The conversation is easy at first—food, the ridiculous shopping haul, chitchat about Veronique and Sophia. The meal comes and it’s perfect: burrata with grilled bread, then pasta with lobster and so much butter I want to bathe in it.
Halfway through the meal, a guy in a server’s jacket comes over with a fresh bottle of wine. He’s younger than the other staff, maybe college-aged, with curly hair and a dimple in his cheek. He fills Hunter’s glass, then turns to me and freezes.
For a second, he just stares.
Then he says, “Tara? Oh my god, is that you?”
I blink, fork halfway to my mouth. “I’m sorry, what?”
The guy’s face goes red. “Sorry, you just—never mind. I thought you were someone I knew.”
Hunter’s jaw tightens. “She’s Daisy,” he says, polite but with an edge.
The waiter backpedals, “Sorry, my bad. You just look exactly like this girl I used to know. She was a barista, but quit her jobunexpectedly. Sorry, sorry.” He hurries away, almost tripping over the chair leg.
I stare at Hunter, the name echoing in my skull like a bell. Tara.
He covers my hand with his own. “You okay?”
I nod, but the food tastes different now, metallic and cold.
Hunter changes the subject, asking about the sculptures, the shopping, anything to keep me distracted. I let him, because I don’t want to admit that the name makes my skin itch, that I want to chase after the waiter and demand he tell me everything about this Tara.
But I don’t. I just smile, eat, and let Hunter keep my hand in his.
For the rest of the meal, I watch the windows, watching the snow start to fall. The city looks different with a dusting of white, softer, almost magic. But inside, I’m all knots, trying to hold myself together.
When the check comes, Hunter signs it without looking. He takes my hand as we leave, his grip tighter than before.
We walk through the restaurant in silence, the world outside muffled by snow.
We’re almostto the car when I say, “Hunter?”
He looks at me, and for the first time, I see it—the worry, the calculation, the way he’s always watching me, waiting for me to remember.
“If I used to be someone else,” I say, “what happens when I remember her?”
